


baby, you're like lighting in a bottle

by clin0maniac



Category: SK8 the Infinity (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, angst if you squint hard enough, drummer!miya, guitarist!reki, meta references to ep 1, miya can also play the piano, pianist!langa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clin0maniac/pseuds/clin0maniac
Summary: Of black and white keys and metallic strings, Langa had long quit the piano, never once thinking he would play it again. When he meets a boy with fiery red hair and a guitar slung over his shoulder, he learns to love music again, finding the thrill of performing in front of a crowd.Pulling the guitar over his shoulder, he plays a few experimental notes. Fingers swiping over strings. Immediately, the guitar growls out low notes. Chuckling at the fascination in Langa’s eyes, Reki thinks he might just show off for a bit.Counting the beats in, Reki exhales.The opening riff sets his heart on fire.
Relationships: Hasegawa Langa/Kyan Reki
Comments: 8
Kudos: 96





	baby, you're like lighting in a bottle

**Author's Note:**

> the song reki's band is playing in this fic is electric love, as suggests by the title. shoutout to my piano teacher, bet they didn't predict me using my experience of playing the piano to write a fanfic.

Reki likes playing the guitar.

He likes the acoustic guitar. Acoustic guitars are the colour of caramel, it plays dolce tunes like a warm embrace, indulging the audience in a soulful caress. The music of an acoustic guitar is a bonfire, it can melt a heart on the coldest winter days. It’s the smell of hot chocolate on an autumn morning or perhaps the peaceful sensations of watching a sunset. It’s calm, collected, and relaxing.

But he likes electric guitar more.

He loves the throaty tone when he plays the strings and the dirty sounds when he puts the amp on overdrive. He loves the way the bass courses through his blood as he’s standing on top of a stage, the adrenaline causing his body to vibrate with energy. Blaring lights shining down, his heart pounding to the loud and brazen drums. Most of all, he loves the cheers of the audience when they finish a song.

So, when he meets a piano player with snow blue hair and frost blue eyes asking if he could join their band. He doesn’t quite understand.

Piano players, those who play classical music - Beethoven, Bach and Chopin, wear suits when they perform. They hold themselves tall when they go on stage, bowing to the audience, each step planned and precise. They play marches, war songs and melancholic melodies, singing the serenades of the composers who have long passed on. Pianos are works of beautiful craftsmanship as they are built to play lovely harmonies.

Reki doesn’t understand. 

He doesn’t understand why this person speaking a tremendously different language of music would want to join them.

* * *

Langa played the piano. 

He has played the piano since he was two. His father taught him. He doesn’t remember the first song he learnt. But he loved the piano all the same. 

He loved it when his fingers traced over the keys, creating resonances upon their touch. He could dance on the keys lighting fast or slow and sentimental. He could play as loud as a thunderclap or soft as a delicate whisper. 

He knew composers like the back of his hand - Tchaikovsky’s whimsical waltzes, their tunes played in Christmas and ballet performances. Debussy’s complex compositions were akin to an Impressionist painting, contemporary and abstract. Liszt, who pushed the boundaries of technique, texture and sound. Pop songs too. His father played them on the piano while he and his mother hummed the lyrics. 

Each written song was unique, they have the composer’s heart and soul scattered into the scores. The scores were written in monotone, the piano was too, yet the music they produced was colourful, vivid and radiant. Langa could feel the emotion filling his veins in every song. Music was his language.

With words, Langa was clumsy. His mother had long poked fun at him for having no filter. The innumerable times he had wrong words spilt from his mouth, forming hurtful sentences, are frightening at this point. Yet with the piano, he could express himself freely. 

The piano was always there for him. The piano comforted him on sad days and welcomed him on happy ones. 

Until it didn’t.

But it’s all in the past tense now. 

He didn’t play the piano anymore.

* * *

“Miya? Miya?” Reki calls out, sliding open the door. He notices the boy curled up on a chair, aimlessly scrolling through his phone. Reki huffs. “Miya, I told you we had to switch practising places. Didn’t you read my message?” 

The younger boy scowls, not looking up from his screen. “No, I didn’t. Why do we have to move rooms anyways?”

“The teachers have to use the room to teach first-years after school starting tomorrow. They want us to move in advance.” Reki says as he piles the sheet music on top of the amps. “Miya, you move your keyboard. I’ll move my guitar.”

“No way! I’m going to sprain my wrist if I hold something that heavy,” Miya whines pitifully.

Reki heaves up the amp. “Come on, it’s not _that_ heavy.”

“N-o.”

Reki narrows his eyes. Miya is beyond stubborn. When he settles his mind on something, it’s near impossible to change his mind. Preferring not to go into a full-blown argument while he has to spare his energy to move the equipment, he sighs. “Fine, go get the key to the geography classroom. We’re moving there.”

Miya whoops, stuffing his phone in his pocket. “I knew I could count on you! Have fun!” Without another word, he speeds out the door, leaving Reki to wonder if he’s gone soft on the younger boy.

* * *

Groaning, Reki climbs up flights of stairs. He had to take three separate trips to migrate all the equipment - one for his guitar, the second for the amps and the sheet music, the third one for Miya’s keyboard. He’s lucky Miya isn’t playing the drums in their next performance because he is sure as hell is not going to carry a drum set. 

Nonetheless, it’s a workout, hiking from the ground floor up to the fourth floor and back down. He curses the fact only a few minutes he had said the equipment was not that heavy (and the fact the school doesn’t have a lift.)

On his second journey, he holds the amp in his arms, the paper on top piled on top haphazardly, dwindling in the winds dangerously. He looks down on the printed scores, most of them are from past gigs. He remembers every song he’s played for the band. He finds it incredible how each note on a score can make and remake the universe. Each line and space on the staff represents a particular tone. Together, they spin into the infinite possibilities of rearranged chords, scales, and melodies. 

Before he can look forward again, he bumps into something. _Someone._

Paper scatters across on the floorboards. Reki regains his balance to not drop the massive amp and crush his feet.

“I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

Reki looks up. 

He comes face to face with a pair of blue eyes. Really, _really_ blue eyes. 

They were ice-cold glaciers, racing with warm sun-lit currents. Hair (equally blue) parted down the middle, framing his face. Two unassuming strands shielding his worried eyes. Even his complexion was as pale as snowfall.

“Are you hurt?” The boy Reki bumps into cocks his head. 

He wears the school uniform with its matching beige blazer, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Reki had never seen him before. Was he new? A transfer student?

“Um-,” Reki stammers, his inability to think of a response causing the other to look at him questioningly, eyebrows pinched. “I’m f-, I’m good!” Reki finally chokes out.

He ducks his head to be reminded of the papers blowing away. Clumsily putting down the amp, he chases after the papers. Reki catches the boy doing the same. He returns to stack the scores (this time more neatly) on his amp, but the blue-haired boy takes them off his hands.

“Let me?” he offers, “You don’t want to drop them again.”

Reki hums. “Yea, that’s probably for the best.”

They fall wordlessly into line, walking to the geography classroom. He learns the boy’s name is Langa Hasegawa, a transfer student from Canada. His mother is from Japan, the reason he’s fluent in Japanese. He’s a third-year like Reki. They didn’t have any class, explaining why Reki hasn’t met him at all.

“So you’re in a band, huh?” 

“Well, it’s just me and another person.”

“That’s nice, to have someone with the same interests as you.” Langa gives a small smile.

“I guess so,” Reki mutters, sliding opening the classroom door. 

“Took you long enough,” Miya complains.

“Maybe if you helped, we would have been down by now,” Reki retorts. Putting down the amp by a socket, he directs Langa to put the scores on the table. 

“Less talking, more moving.” Miya instructs, “Also who’s that?”

“I’m Hasegawa Langa, a third-year transfer student.” The raven-haired boy narrows his eyes, the boy behind Reki shifts uncomfortably under Miya’s gaze. 

“Miya, at least Langa helps me,” Reki says, he turns to face the blue-haired boy, “Come on, we have to get Miya’s keyboard unless you want to stay in the room and wait.”

Once again, they are back in the hallways of the school. Only now, orange-gold spills through the windows. Thick air settles in the silences in between and Reki sucks in a breath.

“Say, Langa, do you play any instruments?” 

“I played the piano,” Langa replies, the enunciation of the words mellow. When Reki talks about guitar, he’s passionate, he’s eager, he rambles on and on. 

“Did you quit?” Reki proposes and then stops himself. He wouldn’t want to pry too much into Langa’s personal life, especially when they’ve only met a few minutes ago. “Nevermind, forget I ever-”

“I did. I did quit the piano,” Langa interrupts, “I quit when my dad… passed away. He’s the one who taught me how to play it. When he died, I couldn’t bring myself to even sit in front of a piano… sorry, was that too much?” He rubs the back of his neck.

Reki waves his hands frantically. “No no, not at all… I’m sorry about your dad. And thank you for telling me.”

“No, thank you for listening, Reki.”

* * *

“Can I listen while you practise?” Langa asks as they are back in the geography room. Equipment all moved and set up.

Reki beams. “Of course! I would love to!” Miya scowls, clearly unhappy with the new arrangement. 

Pulling the guitar over his shoulder, he plays a few experimental notes. Fingers swiping over strings. Immediately, the guitar growls out low notes. Chuckling at the fascination in Langa’s eyes, Reki thinks he might just show off for a bit. 

Counting the beats in, Reki exhales.

The opening riff sets his heart on fire. 

He lets the muscle memory take over, twangy notes throbbing in his ribcage. It subdues into a softer tune, a lighter melody as Miya’s chords guide him. He follows the croon of the Miya’s tunes and falls into another riff, fingers flying across the frets. He swears he hears Langa hum along to the song. All blends into the beat thundering the sole of his boots. Miya’s chord progression builds up and they reach the chorus of the track. His blood runs hot. Miya’s harmonies come in strong and fast, rhythm to Reki’s strumming, notes perfectly in sync. 

Reki lets the song run its course, the excitement fueling the energy in his tunes. Finally, they come to a close with sharp notes and a crisp ending.

Reki takes a moment to catch his breath. His fingers numb from pressing guitar strings. 

“How was that?”

“That… that was good.”

Reki huffs. “That’s it? Man, you’re harder to impress than I thought.”

“Don’t you think… it’ll be better to actually sing the song?” 

Miya bursts into laughter, wheezing between words. “Reki? Singing? He’s tone-deaf! He can’t even form a coherent sentence in Japanese and you expect him to sing in English?” 

“Shut _up_!”

* * *

That night, Langa returns home. He sits in front of the piano for the first time in two years.

His hands dance over the keys like it’s always meant to be. 

He plays until the sun rises.

* * *

Much to Miya’s dismay, Langa unofficially joins the band after that.

He’s there at band practice after school. Langa gives advice and criticism that Reki would take to heart, seeing as the other boy was a musician as well. (As for Miya, he couldn’t say the same.) 

They fall into this unspoken routine leading up to the performance. Sometimes, Reki would catch Langa playing the piano when the rest of the band isn’t here yet, dream-like euphonies, haunting consonances that would be cut off right when he sees Reki by the door. Upon asking, he would shrug it off. He would always refuse to play with the band though he hums the lyrics when Reki plays songs on his guitar. He sings low and faint like it was a secret. 

A secret Reki wishes he would be let in on.

* * *

“Sick! What do you mean you’re sick?”

“It means everything hurts, I’m losing my voice and I can’t perform today. Get it in your thick head,” Miya croaks out from the other side of the phone, following an onslaught of dry coughs. 

Reki takes a second to let the fact settle it. Hours and hours of practice, to have that final step ripped from your grasp. Reki can’t imagine what it’s like. 

“I’m…, get well soon, Miya.” Reki says, running his hands through his unruly bedhead, “I’ll try to sort things out.”

Miya blows his nose aloud. “Hm… sorry for making this difficult.”

“No, don’t be. Get some rest, yeah?” 

Reki hangs up. He flops back down to his bed.

Normally, they have their performances in the afternoon. It provided them with adept time to rehearse in the morning. However, today was different. They have their performance early in the morning and right after Miya’s drum lessons. They have arranged to meet directly at the venue, a local music festival they’ve applied to. But since Miya is sick…

He is screwed.

* * *

“Where’s Miya?” Langa asks, early to the venue as he always is. 

The chatter of people seems to reverberate all around. Vivid banners light up the streets, lined with bountiful food stalls, vendors beckon folks to come close. 

Clutching the strap of his guitar case, realization doesn’t come crashing down. Reki knows he will be going on stage alone. “He’s sick.”

“So you’re performing by yourself?” 

Reki ducks his head. “Yea?”

“I can play with you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I said, I can play the piano to accompany you,” Langa repeats himself, “Do you have the scores?”

Heart skipping a beat, a shaky smile gradually forms on Reki’s face. “Yea, yea, I do.” He drops the guitar case to the ground, opening the zip at the front, Reki pulls out a few pieces of loose paper and flips through them before he finds the ones he wants. 

“Here, lucky I kept a copy here.” Langa immediately starts studying the notes. “Are you sure you can do it?”

“I’ll be fine… probably. I can sight read the scores.” 

“At least be a little more confident,” Reki says, pulling the guitar case back on his shoulder.

For the next hour, Langa leaves Reki in silence as he examines the monotone paper. Digits gliding on invisible keys in the air as he learns the fingering and the chords. The other performances in the background - Shadow playing the bass guitar, Joe’s bright ukulele tunes and Cherry Blossom’s nostalgic themes on the piano, only fueled Reki’s rising anticipation, counting down the minutes before their performance. Reki considers a stage name. If he’s on the stage and he embarrasses himself, no one will know his _real_ name, right? 

A booming voice announces, “Next, we will welcome the rising band of youths, ‘S’. Please make your way backstage. For now, we will have a short intermission! Continue enjoying the festival and we wish everyone a great day!”

Reki turns to look at Langa. 

_I’m ready._

The first time Reki stepped foot upon a stage, there was a tingling sensation too elusive to name. Soon, the more he performs, the will to share his music, his passion with the crowds, he overcomes his bashful vulnerability. It now comes as the form of adrenaline coursing through his veins, a jolt of electricity that sets his soul ablaze.

The curtains draw themselves. Guitar slung around his shoulder. Mic in his hands.

Under the spotlights, upon that stage, thousands of eyes on him, he opens his mouth.

“Hi,” Reki starts, “I’m Kiyan Reki and my bandmate,” He passes the mic to Langa. “Hello, I’m Hasegawa Langa.” Reki continues, “Together, we are ‘S’. We have a member who is sick today.” He earns a handful of aw’s from the crowd. Reki pushes on, looking right into the camera. ”He gave everything he could leading up to this performance. So we won’t let it deter us. We will give everything we can because we don’t want his efforts to go to waste.” 

Reki moves to put the mic back on the stand, only stopped by Langa. The other boy takes the mic from his hand, along with the clamp stand, moving them close to the keyboard.

Blue eyes look back. 

_Trust me._

Reki waits. He waits, hands clammy from sweat, fingers over guitar frets. Each passing second feels like an eternity. 

The descending notes come crashing down. He closes his eyes. Reki counts the beats in.

One.

Two. 

Three.

The ringing sounds of the electric guitar grounds him. His hands move on the guitar like it’s a familiar dance. 

Langa’s saccharine voice pierces the hazy air. 

Reki’s eyes snap open to look at him. He feels the bottom of his stomach drop.

His voice rises high, following the gravelly chords of Reki’s guitar, and the tumbling notes of his own piano. A gentle silence falls over the audience; they are watching with bated breath, captivated by the contagious energy of the melody.

The music swells, Reki falling into a riff. With the crescendo of tones hitting, chords from the piano become more pronounced. The syllables roll off his tongue like silvered honey, the foreign language sending chills down Reki’s back. His words enchanting the audience effortlessly - eyes concentrated on the scores, fingers trailing symphonies on the black and white keys. 

Reki grinned as he joined into the chorus of the song, playing in synchrony to Langa’s rhythm. His heart is _burning_. The infectious energy of Langa’s vocals pushing him on.

Langa turns to meet Reki, a lopsided smile hung on his face. Reki suppresses a laugh, returning with a hundred-watt grin.

Eventually, they near the end of the song. They finish simultaneously with descending notes, the singing voice coming to a halt. Chest heaving, they turn the cheering audience, bowing low. The applause only filters into the buzz in Reki’s ears, caused by the faint strings of adrenaline he’s still holding on to.

Beneath the blinding lights, for the first time in history, there is snow in Okinawa.

Reki wonders if snow is supposed to burn.


End file.
